


Intaglio

by celli



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: undermistletoe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-15
Updated: 2006-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/pseuds/celli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You've walked those streets a thousand times and still you end up here." --<a href="http://celli.livejournal.com/624267.html">Antilamentation</a> by Dorianne Laux</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intaglio

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://undermistletoe.livejournal.com/profile)[**undermistletoe**](http://undermistletoe.livejournal.com/), rather loosely inspired by the prompt below. Endless thanks to [](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[**barely_bean**](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/) and [](http://scribblinlenore.livejournal.com/profile)[**scribblinlenore**](http://scribblinlenore.livejournal.com/) for their beta work, and to [](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/profile)[**musesfool**](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/) for the readthrough.

_Intaglio: The process of incising a design beneath the surface of a metal or stone. Plates are inked only in the etched depressions on the plates and then the plate surface is wiped clean._

You've heard this story: a nursery, a fire, a mother dead and her young family abandoned to a newly terrifying world. And every time you hear it, you think, if only. If only they'd been warned. If only she'd been saved. If only that night hadn't happened, everything would have been fine.

If only.

***

Missouri looked down at the two little ones on her guest bed. Dean lay on his side, one hand clutched in Sammy's sleeper, his eyes fixed on his brother's face.

"It's okay," he whispered. "The bad man didn't get you, Sammy. Daddy saved us."

"Go to sleep, Dean," Missouri said gently. "It's late."

"But someone has to watch Sammy so the bad man doesn't come back for him."

The baby looked away from Dean and up at Missouri, and suddenly in her head, with far too much clarity, was a looming dark shape, a man shouting, the frustrated howl of something inhuman, the lick of flame chasing them down the stairs.

She blinked back into the present, trying not to gasp for breath. "Let the grownups worry tonight," she said, watching Sammy turn his head back to Dean. "Sleep now, baby."

***

John and Mary were in the living room. They were wrapped about as tightly around each other as two people could be in public, but Missouri could feel the anger and worry and fear rolling off them both.

They looked over when they heard her, and she could feel the fear ratchet up a notch as John asked raggedly, "The boys?"

"Asleep, thank goodness. That Dean of yours is pretty stubborn, John, but I wore him down finally."

Mary looked back at the doorway, and Missouri held up a hand. "I'll know if they wake up, and I'll know if anything comes near this place. I think you two have some talking left to do."

"What was that tonight? What does it want?" John asked.

"How can we keep it from finding us again?" Mary's face was pale but set.

"Hell with that. Missouri, tell me there's a way to kill the damn thing."

"I don't _know._ I'm sorry. I've never encountered anything like this before in my life." She sighed. She didn't know nearly enough to help them.

She watched the two young parents, clinging to each other, looking at her as though she had the answer to the universe. How was she supposed to tell them it was Sammy, and the baby's abilities, she'd felt that thing reaching out for as she'd driven by their house that night? That something this evil, this angry, would probably never stop looking for the Winchester family until he'd either found them or destroyed them?

"Sit down, please," she said, reaching her mind back to the bedroom for the comfort of the two quiet minds there. "I'm afraid the two of you have some hard decisions to make tonight."

***

Well, then, you say. That's a simple enough solution, if a painful one. Take what the demon's searching for, and make it something else.

Who would see the family of four that ran from the nursery in a man and his boy crossing the country, always on the hunt, never settled into a home? The devoted family man, someone who made a living with his hands--he couldn't possibly be the grizzled warrior learning all he could about evil and fighting it, and teaching his son in turn. And the sweet baby in his crib couldn't possibly become the hardened young man, half-worshipping and half-resenting his father, an expert in all things supernatural.

Even less likely to be found, a single mother and her tow-headed son tucked into a small house in a small town on the East Coast. (The one town, naturally, that the man and his boy never ventured near.) Surely the hardworking nurse with a pretty face and a sad smile could never have been threatened by something evil in the night. And a boy who loved best to read about superheroes and play with the girl down the road would never be the target of anything more sinister than a school bully.

It might work, you say, and it might, despite the pain, the lies to two small boys about family and origins.

The point is, though, that it might work too well.

***

"Sarah!" Dean burst into the auction house and clattered up the stairs to the offices. "Hey! Guess who landed the Carstairs estate?"

"Congratulations!" Sarah laughed and high-fived Dean. "I could have sworn that was going to go to one of the houses in Buffalo."

Dean puffed out his chest comically. "Not while Dean Johnson is on the job!" he intoned. "Protector of the treasures of New Paltz. Tireless advocate for Blake's Auction House. Able to leap tall sales rivals with a single bound."

Sarah's giggles froze into a surprised "o," and Dean looked sheepishly over his shoulder.

"Hi, Daniel."

"Dean. Congratulations on the Carstairs estate."

Dean beamed.

"But didn't you promise me you'd start prepping for the charity auction as soon as you got back?"

"We were just on our way, Dad," Sarah said.

Dean kept the smile on his face until Daniel left, then visibly deflated. "Tell me again how he loves me like a son?"

"You know he does," Sarah said. "He's just a little more...straitlaced these days."

"Oh, is that what we're calling it now?" Dean shucked his suit jacket with relief and followed Sarah down the spiral staircase, rolling up his sleeves as he went.

"Speaking of straitlaced," he said as they approached the storeroom, "what happened with the appraiser from Connecticut?"

"Oh, he gave us a great value on the Jefferson portrait. A little higher than I would have gone, actually."

Dean grabbed a crowbar and opened the first box marked "Children's Hospital." Sarah took her clipboard to the next row and started making notes. "No," he said, "not what happened with the painting. What happened with the appraiser?"

"You mean other than the two most uncomfortable hours of my life, when he tried to impress me with his multiple degrees and his BMW? Nothing."

"What was wrong with this one?"

"He thought I was the kind of girl who's impressed by BMWs!"

"BMWs are impressive!"

"Dean!" Sarah's exasperation was clear from fifteen feet away. "You have to stop throwing me at every human with a Y chromosome that walks in the door."

"Well, if you'd throw yourself once in a while--"

"Dean."

He cracked open another crate and leaned against it. "Come on, Sarah. It's been a year. It's time to start living again."

"Like you? I should start picking up guys in bars and forgetting their names the next morning?"

"I don't--that's not the point, Sarah. And you know your mom would agree with me."

"Yeah? Well, would _your_ mother approve of the way you've lived your life since she died, Dean?"

They stared at each other for a minute, half-angry, half-heartsick. Finally Dean opened his arms, and Sarah dropped her clipboard and walked into them. She bumped her forehead against his chest, and he leaned down to kiss the bit of her head he could reach.

"We have to stop doing this," she said into his shirt. "It's not doing us any good at all."

"I know. I'm sorry. But think about it, okay, Sarah?"

She raised her head and looked him in the eye. "I will if you will."

"Okay." He patted her on the arm--transferring about half the dust from the last crate onto her shirt--and went back to his crate. "Oh, wow. Look at this ugly picture of an ugly family."

She peeked over his shoulder. "That thing's creepy."

"Think it'll sell?"

"I kind of hope not."

"I'll work the crowd." He looked back at it. "I'll work the crowd _hard._ Who puts a razor in their family painting? Weirdos."

***

Of course, Sarah had to take his advice at the worst possible time. A week later, Dean looked across the floor and saw Sarah vamping her heart out at some guy, tall, messy hair, dressed for a garage sale instead of an estate sale.

"Oh, no, no, no," he said, startling the heck out of the grandmother next to him that he'd almost talked into a vase.

"Excuse me?"

He gave her a smile and a charming excuse and made a beeline for Sarah.

"...more Grant Wood than Grandma Moses," he heard as he approached them.

"Can I help you?" He inserted himself neatly between the two of them.

"Sam, this is Dean Johnson, our sales manager." Sarah managed to wedge an elbow in his side quite nicely as she maneuvered him to the side. "Dean, this is Sam Connors, with Connors Limited. He's an art dealer."

"An art dealer. Right." Dean looked Sam up and down. If this kid was an art dealer, Dean would eat his own tie. "Nice hair. Did it come with a plaintive guitar?"

"Dean!"

Sam smiled back at him, all teeth and no friendship. "Nice suit. Did you steal it off a corpse?"

Dean took an involuntary step forward. "You're not on the list, Sam."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that." Dean took another step forward, trying to crowd Sam back, but Sam just leaned forward and kept smirking at him. "You're not invited. Leave."

Sarah actually waited until Sam waved goodbye at her and left before turning on Dean. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you? When I said to find somebody, I meant somebody who wouldn't steal the family silver while your back was turned."

"You," she said in a voice like ice, "are an idiot." Then she turned and stalked away.

"You'll thank me later," he said to her retreating back.

***

Sam stopped halfway up the stairs as Dean and Sarah spilled out of Dean's car. "What are you doing here?" he asked Sarah. "What's he doing with you?"

"Ears like a bat," Sarah said grimly. "He heard me on the phone with you and kidnapped my car keys."

Sam turned to Dean. "Get her out of here."

"No!" Sarah said.

Dean crossed his arms. "Why, so you can rob Evelyn without interference?"

"No, so I can save her life without interference. I think your friend is in danger."

"From a painting?" Sarah asked.

"That's ridiculous," Dean said.

"I don't have time for this." Sam pounded up the stairs, Dean and Sarah close behind, and rang the doorbell. It echoed through the house. Dean thought for a minute he heard something rustling, and looked around to see if the wind was picking up.

"Evelyn?" Sarah reached around Sam and knocked. Still nothing.

"I need to get in there." Sam knelt down in front of the door and pulled out an honest-to-God set of lockpicks. Dean shot Sarah a look-- _I told you this guy was bad news_ \--and she shot one back-- _Mind your own business._

Inside, the house was still. Perfectly clean, Dean thought irrelevantly. He saw Evelyn in her favorite chair, one Daniel had sold her only the year before. "Evelyn?" he said. "It's Dean Johnson and Sarah Blake."

No response. Sarah approached her and put a tentative hand on her shoulder.

"No--" Sam started, but Evelyn's head had already fallen back, showing the red slash and the unseeing eyes, and Sarah was screaming, her eyes locked on the painting over the mantel. Dean followed her line of sight and saw--nothing. A trick of the light, obviously.

Because _paintings didn't move._

***

Sam opened the hotel room door and Dean burst through, slamming it back into the wall behind him. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but you need to leave Sarah out of it, now."

"Is she okay?"

"She's lying through her teeth to the cops right now, and she just saw someone she knows dead, but other than that, she's fine, thanks for asking. Are we done with the small talk?"

"Look, I know this is all kind of freaky, but--"

Dean barely resisted the urge to punch the guy. His patience in that area was starting to wear thin. "Freaky, yeah. Who the hell are you, and why is it you show up and people start dying?"

Sam gave a half-laugh and shook his head. "Habit?"

Dean lashed out without any forethought at all, and surprised Sam enough to catch him solidly below his right eye. His second punch was blocked and returned, and then they were on the floor, scuffling like junior high kids behind the gym. Dean's mom had insisted he take karate for six years, but Sam fought to maim, not to score points.

With one last blow, Sam shoved away from Dean and stood up. Dean sat up, attempting to keep the panting to a minimum, and glared at him.

"Do you feel better now?" Sam asked--a little out of breath himself, Dean noticed meanly.

"I feel like I have a black eye."

Sam looked him up and down. "Yeah, you do." He offered Dean a hand up. Dean thought about it for a minute and took it.

"Listen, Dean. I don't explain myself very often, because people don't usually believe me. But I'm not trying to hurt Sarah. I'm actually trying to make sure nobody else dies like Evelyn and the Telescas."

"Then you know who killed them."

Sam scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I have a pretty good idea _what_ killed them."

Dean just stared at him.

***

They'd made enough headway in the grave that Dean's knees were belowground. "Sarah, you're shining the light in my eyes again."

"Sorry." She didn't really sound sorry. And she didn't move the light; probably too busy staring at Sam. Dean tossed the next shovelful of dirt right on top of her hundred and fifty dollar shoes. Ha.

"So how'd you get a copy of the death certificate, anyway?" he asked Sam.

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. "Lying and subterfuge. The usual."

"Nice work if you can get it."

"Yeah."

"Does it actually...pay?"

"Not so you'd notice. It has other compensations, though."

"Ohhhh." Dean turned up towards Sarah. "He means he gets all the girls," he stage-whispered. She aimed the light directly in his eyes. "Hey! Stop that!"

Sam started laughing. Dean turned back to him. "Seriously. How do you get into ghostbusting anyway? Did you major in it in college?"

"I never went to college. Demon hunting isn't the kind of thing that makes you look like a well-rounded applicant."

"Oh. I guess not."

"Dean dropped out of college," Sarah called down.

"Shut it, Sarah."

"You quit?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged and dug into the next bit of dirt. "My mom died, and college was really more her thing. I just--I figured there were more important things to do right then, you know?"

"I guess." Sam still looked vaguely disappointed.

Dean forced a smile. "Of course, my more important things usually involved getting drunk and meeting women. Yours were saving the world and stuff."

"True," Sam said lightly. He dug silently for a minute. "You're saving the world now, though."

Dean's smile got a little less forced. "Good point."

***

"Just to be on the safe side," Sam said as he pulled up outside Evelyn's house, "we're going to burn the painting."

"Again?" Dean asked.

"Yes, again. Stay here."

"Sarah!" Dean hissed as she followed Sam out of the car.

"I'm going in with Sam."

"What, are you going to make out with him in front of a ghost painting? That is so tacky!"

Sarah turned a look of horrified shame on him. Behind her, Sam was pretending he was deaf. "Stay here, Dean."

"Fine, fine, I'll stay here." Dean slammed out of the back seat and into the driver's seat, bumping up against something solid. "Hey, Sam! You forgot your gun!" But Sam was already through the door, so Dean shrugged and dropped it again.

He was fiddling with the radio in the Impala, trying to find the station most likely to be playing music Sam would hate, when Evelyn's front door slammed shut.

"Sarah? Sam!"

***

"Get to the mausoleum!" Sarah's voice was high and frantic on the phone. "It's the little girl's doll. Smash it, whatever--Sam says if you can set it on fire, that's the best way."

"Got it."

"Hurry, Dean!"

He pushed the car even faster.

***

He pounded on the glass impotently, but it was way too thick. He couldn't get a good enough angle on it to kick it.

Damn it! Think, Dean, think. What would Sam do?

He went tearing back out to the car. Where the hell was the gun?

***

"Sarah? Are you--Sarah?" His heart was pounding right out of his chest. The smoke from the doll was heavy in his throat, and for a minute he could swear he heard screaming, and someone calling his name. But then he heard Sam's voice on the phone, pained but clear, and Sarah laughing behind him, and the rest faded away.

***

Dean sent all the staff home early the next day and packed up Evelyn's estate himself. He left the painting until last. Sam showed up just as he was crating it. Sarah let him in.

"Hey," Sam said.

"Hey," Dean echoed back. "Sarah and I decided this painting is too ugly to live. We're going to take it out back and burn it. What do you think?"

"I think that's a great idea," Sam said.

Dean sighed. Sam was looking at Sarah like she held the Holy Grail in her hands, and she was smiling at him in a way she hadn't in a very, very long time. He hammered the last nail into the crate. "It's really just a one-man job, so I'm going to leave you two kids alone."

"Dean." Sam held out a hand; Dean surprised himself by shaking it. "Thanks for everything."

Dean let go, leaned over to kiss Sarah on the forehead, then grabbed the painting and headed for the back door. He turned back, once, to see Sarah launching herself at Sam, face alight with joy.

"That's my girl," he said quietly, and made himself scarce.

Not too scarce, though. When Sam closed the auction house door behind him quite a while later, Dean was leaning against the side of the Impala.

"Headed back to the hotel?"

"No." Sam's face was set. "Another hunt."

"You son of a bitch."

"Listen, Dean--"

"You know, I like this car," Dean said conversationally. "I think it's the best thing about you."

"It's my dad's," Sam said shortly.

"Really? Did he give it to you so you could run away from people in it?"

Sam just looked at him for a minute, then reached for the car door. Dean stepped in front of him, blocking him.

"Dean." Sam's voice was quiet. "Not all of us get the life we want. I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as we are," Dean said, and walked away.

***

Sarah was sitting at her desk, her chin propped on her hands, staring at nothing. Dean wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"I'm sorry, Sarah."

"It's okay," she said, but her voice cracked. "Oh, Dean."

"I know." He pulled her closer. "I know, baby."

***

Okay, but it doesn't end like this, you say. With a lonely young man driving away by himself, leaving two even lonelier people behind him. A mother dead, and a father absent, and not even the knowledge of brotherhood to comfort their sons. How is this story any better than the one that should have been?

The easy answer is that maybe it's not any better. Maybe it can't be. Maybe evil's too strong, and fear too prevalent, and pain too inevitable.

But this story is about beginnings, and families, and changing fate. So it doesn't end with a car driving away. It begins, again, with a change in what should have been, and with three messages.

***

"Uh, hi, Sam? This is Sarah. Sarah Blake. I hope you remember me. You saved me from a ghost in a painting--in New York? And then we--and then I--ah. You know, this isn't really something I can say to your voice mail. Could you call me back, please? As soon as you can. Thanks, Sam. Um. Bye."

"Dad? Dad, please, just this once, please, I need to talk to you, okay? Uh, something happened, and I think it's entirely possible you're going to kick my ass. But I need you. Don't ignore me, don't blow me off, just come to New Paltz, New York, and meet me. I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to, Dad. You know I wouldn't."

"Hello, Dean? My name is Missouri. I know you probably don't remember me, but I know your family from a very long time ago..."

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Successful businessman Ryan Bennett had agreed to masquerade as his wealthy cousin for a blind date.
> 
> But from the moment Ryan saw Julie Nelson to the moment he should have said good-night, he was captivated and couldn't resist an invitation to share her bed. In the hazy afterglow of their heated lovemaking, Ryan confessed his true identity, claiming the passion between them was real despite his deception, but Julie wasn't buying it. Obviously she considered him the enemy.
> 
> Except now she was having the enemy's baby...


End file.
